a trophy father's trophy son
by A Lily By Any Other Name
Summary: Father, father, tell me where have you been?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yo! So I'm taking a teeny break from Prumano's Delivery Service, but worry not, dear readers, for I will return to it shortly (ch 4 is currently in the works). But in the meantime, have this short, multi-chapter fic about Britain and Australia.  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia**

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**a trophy father's trophy son  
A Lily By Any Other Name**

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_1784_

Australia was miles upon miles of endless, parched land. It was isolated, dangerous, and an unideal place to colonize. Erecting settlements—_settlements, _not _prisons—_here would be tricky, expensive business; freshwater was scarce, the rivers seemed far and few, and the land was hardly arable for crops. Australia, it seemed, was suited _only _for those… Undesirables that made a disgusting, crowded, pigsty of the jailhouses back in Britain. Perhaps it would be here—in this thirsty, famished, dangerous, _unmarked_ new land—that they could serve the rest of their sentences.

That was perhaps the only positive Arthur Kirkland could find to Australia. It wasn't promising like the Americas—like _America—_had been, but unlike his ex-colony, there seemed to be no distinct claim on the land. Spain, Netherlands, all those Nordics, and—most importantly—that _damn frog _hadn't yet pissed on the place to mark their territory. There seemed to be no trace of any permanent towns, cities, or settlements.

Nothing.

It was a blank slate, a _tabula rasa. _

Maybe it is worth my time, Arthur Kirkland contemplated as he wandered the shoreline. The ships were still docked in the azure-colored waters despite the fact that they were gearing to head back to London. Well, the Englishman mused as he gazed at the ivory sand covering his shoes, it _is _a rather pretty land; perhaps putting forth more time and money that we don't have into making it habitable would be well worth the effort.

A sudden rustle in the beach grasses caught his attention. The maritime wind had been lax since their arrival, and the waters relatively calm. This sudden bout of movement behind him was not the work of the wind; it sounded more like that of a person, a clumsy person at that, bumbling through the grasses. A normal, taller adult would not be quite so clumsy, and invisible from Arthur's angle. The Englishman tensed, and prepared for the worst.

A boy, a toddling boy, emerged from the quivering grasses. Arthur took an instinctual step back as the child approached him with uneven, yet energetic steps. His bare, chubby, toddler legs were covered in a light layer of white sand. Arthur kept retreating into the surf. He couldn't. This scene seemed all too familiar, and he couldn't afford another attachment to strange, wandering children he found in new lands. No. It was too soon—merely a year since that damned treaty had been signed—yet so long ago, and he _couldn't. _

But the boy thought differently.

As he neared, Arthur found he couldn't keep distancing himself. Upon further inspection, he could tell the boy had green eyes. Green. Not blue. This boy was the ruggedness of the land personified; his dark hair was mussed by the wind, his eyes were the green of the bushes further inland, and his skin a healthy tan.

And in his hands—oh, in his little hands—he carried a spider.

"Put that thing down, boy!" Arthur yelled as the child thrust the grotesque, eight-legged thing up towards him. The animal was almost as big as the boy's fist. "Get it away from me! Now!"

The toddler giggled, but set the arachnid down in the wet sand. Arthur watched in dismay as the thing struggled to escape the low, gentle tide. Where that boy had gotten such a massive spider from, Arthur did not want to know. This scene, too, was familiar. It reminded Arthur of a little blonde boy, grasslands, and a bison.

But the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The boy was currently splashing in the water, attempting to jump the languid waves. He did not seem to care for getting sand and salt water in his hair. With a small hand, he reached into the surf, and splashed Arthur with a handful of seawater. The Englishman bristled, his pants now wet and stained with sand and salt, and practically dragged the child out of the water. The little imp was a savage one; he refused to be removed from his play place, and dug his heels into the shifting sand to avoid being carried away from the sea. Arthur scooped him up, threw him over his shoulder, and set the wriggling boy down on solid ground. Wet footprints—one pair big, and the other small—seemed to melt the dry sand.

"No." The Englishman chastised firmly when the boy held out his arms to be picked up again. The child tugged on his pants, and Arthur flinches. "_No."_

Arthur himself is surprised at how severe he sounds. His voice never had, till recently, to take on that tone with… With his former ward.

But neither _him, _nor this boy were family (anymore).

The boy felt it too, that causticness, and immediately began to tear up. His lower lip trembled dangerously, and his green eyes glistened with tears. Arthur bit his lower lip, but inhaled deeply through his nose.

"No." He decided firmly. The boy began crying. "I'm not your father, nor am I your brother. Go back to your bush."

He hated admitting the guilt that plagued him on his journey back to Europe.

For the image of the little boy, the one that had splashed him with water, sitting melancholically in the waves as he watched the ships leave was one to be added to a list of bitter-tasting memories.

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**Historical note: Australia was officially claimed as a British penal colony in 1788, when the first fleet of English ships arrived in what is now Sydney (then claimed as New South Wales). Other European explorers and scientists, however, had been there beforehand to look at the flora and fauna. From 1788 till the early 1800s, Australia was used as a dump site for British prisoners. **

**A/N: Chapter two coming soon. Thanks to everyone that has favorited, followed, and reviewed all my other stories! You guys are the true MVPs! Reviews and things of the like are totally welcome on this story, too, though. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yo! Chapter two coming your way! I imagine Australia- Jack, as he will be referred to in this chapter- is around... Eleven-ish in this chapter? Anyways, thanks to everyone who has favorite-d and reviewed! Y'all are the true MVPs.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or any Sleeping With Sirens songs.**

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** A Trophy Father's Trophy Son  
A Lily By Any Other Name**

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**Chapter Two**

_1610_

"Britain, Britain! Look! Look at my seashells!"

Arthur smiled as the little blonde boy ran towards him. Alfred climbed up the sand dune with some struggle; his hands, full of pretty seashells he'd found on the Virginian shoreline, could not be used to steady himself in the shifting sand. Arthur carefully descended the dune, and extended his hand to the child. Alfred glanced up at him, then back at his seashells. After much thought, he dropped them in the sand, and cautiously made his way up with Arthur's help. Alfred was covered in sand; his clothes were stained with seawater, and his feet were filthy.

"I dropped my seashells…" He said, forlornly glancing back towards the bottom of the dune. The shells looked small from their place at the top of the sandy hill.

"Worry not." Arthur reassured him as he picked the boy up. Alfred wrapped his arms around his neck like a vice. "We can go back tomorrow to look for more, okay?"

"Yeah!" Alfred suddenly smiled, his forgotten seashells now a matter of the past.

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_1851_

"Why are there so many people here, Britain?"

Arthur set his tea down, and looked up from his book. Jack- Australia—was standing in front of him. The Englishman spared a disdainful glance at the state of the boy's state of dress; his shirt was rumpled, the hems of his trousers were rolled up to his knees, and his feet were covered in sand. An unruly brown curl stuck to his sweat-shined forehead like a fly to honey. In his arms was a basket of seashells.

Worse still, however, was the trail of sandy footprints originating at the door.

"Is your country always empty, Australia?" Arthur said loftily, returning to his book with a sip of the tea he'd attained on his last visit to India. "Why the surprise?"

"I've just… I've never seen so many people here before." The boy explained. "Well, at least not people dressed like you."

"Like me?" The Englishman raised an eyebrow at his ward. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, y'know…" Jack set his basket of seashells on the floor with a shrug. "Dressed in all those stuffy clothes you always want me to wear. Everyone who's gotten here before wasn't dressed all that nice because they were convicts, right? All these new people don't look like convicts."

"I guess that's the kind of people you attract when someone cries wolf." Arthur sighed sardonically, watching as the boy took a seat on the sandy floor to sort through his finds. "Never should have told them about the gold if I'd known socializing would bother you so much."

"The gold?" Jack looked up at him. A pair of green eyes shone through his mess of coarse brown hair. "What gold?"

"There's gold here, in your country, Australia." The Englishman explained as if he were talking to a toddler. "The land is abundant with gold just as it is abundant with all those strange creatures you like to befriend. After exhausting America of its supply, everyone decided to mine here."

Arthur paused. America. He hadn't said that name in a good thirty-something years, not since 1812, but it left a funny taste on his tongue. _That _hadn't even been his personal decision; he had no business, no right to interfere, in his former colonies. Maybe—just maybe—he wished for an excuse to visit him, to check in on him, but war was certainly not it. He'd sat that one out, his uniform and musket collecting dust in a corner, for he did not want to reenact Lexington, or Concord, or Yorktown; they were long-forgotten thorns in his spine he wished to pull out, but was reminded of every day he spent with Australia; it was Alfred, not Jack, he saw every time the latter came home with wrinkled clothes, sand in his hair, and a strange animal trailing behind him. His hair, though shades darker, was marred by that unruly lick that just would _not _stay put no matter how much Arthur insisted to run a comb through it. But the similarities did not stop there. He was a young, ambitious new country with aspirations of adventure, greatness, and that so-called freedom that America and France became so infatuated with less than a century ago. Australia had not yet demonstrated that desire for rebellion, but Arthur knew it was inevitable for this boy to take that daring peek out of the nest he'd built for him.

Perhaps it was just Arthur's bloody luck to grown fond of these type of children.

But this time he wouldn't let that affection bleed into reason.

Because this time, when the time came, he would be prepared.

"They're going to mine?" Jack inquired. For a second, Arthur almost forgot he was seated at his feet. "Won't that destroy the land, though? What if it scares the animals? What if someone _hurts _the animals-?"

"It will be good for you, Australia." He reassured the child. "You won't think twice of all those what-have-you's when you grow into a big and strong empire from all money you'll be making with the gold. Don't worry about it, boy."

"But… They're my _animals—"_

"And they don't matter nearly as much as people." Arthur scoffed as he set down his book, and got up from his chair. Jack watched him with wide green eyes, a mess of sand and seashells scattered around him. Arthur wrinkled his nose, and scrutinized the scene before him. "Put those shells back where they came from, lad, and go change into something clean. It's bad enough that you've sullied the floors."

A flicker of anger danced across the boy's features, but he complied nonetheless by placing his finds back in the basket. They would be dumped back into the ocean, back into the sandy dunes, soon enough, but Jack would not be coming back empty-handed.

Arthur was not pleased when he later found a crab in his pillow.

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**Historical notes: 1851 officially saw the start of the Australian gold rush. Roughly during this time period, though, the American gold rush was taking place particularly in California. Also, the first English colony was established in Jamestown, Virginia in the early 1600s, but if you live in America you should know that because its probably been shoved down your throat since, like, fifth grade. **

**A/N: Reviews are welcome! Chapter three coming soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, quick update amirite? **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or any references to the song Cliffs of Gallipoli by Sabaton.**

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** A Trophy Father's Trophy Son  
A Lily By Any Other Name**

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**Chapter Three**

_March 1915_

"This is it, huh, mate?"

The choppy waters of the Mediterranean Sea splashed viciously against the side of the ship like a dog snapping at its owner's heels. An anemic ray of watery sunlight danced upon the waves. It fought to permeate through the layer of endless grey clouds above. The maritime air was thick with moisture, salt, and with the unspoken anticipation of an entire regiment. Jack Kirkland leaned against the slippery railing of the ship—of _his _ship, thanks—and watched as the Grecian docks became less and less tiny upon the blue horizon with each slosh of sea. Next to him his brother, Ben (or, rather, New Zealand), seemed to be staring out at the vast immensity of the Mediterranean. Jack wondered if it, too, reminded Ben of their home in the South Pacific.

"Not really." Ben mused, his eyes still fixed on the sea. "It's just the last stop before Gallipoli."

Gallipoli. The white cliffs of the Ottoman peninsula were waiting for them miles beyond the Greek coast. They were chock-full of tanks, torpedoes and Johnny Turks all stationed, positioned, on the dusty edge.

"Sure is." Jack assumed the same position as his brother, and leaned over the salt-sprayed rail. If he looked down, he could watch just how the waves assaulted the ship. Pfft. As if feeling seasick in the mornings wasn't enough. "Why are you staring the sea down, N.Z? Aren't you excited?"

The aforementioned nation (_nation_) cocked his head to the side in inquiry, but made no further move to acknowledge his question. "For what?"

"For the fighting, of course!" Jack grinned. Ben earned himself a light slap on the back of his blonde head. "This is not only the furthest we've ever been from our bit of the globe, but we're _countries _now, N.Z! This is our chance to finally leave the old man's nest once and for all, _and _to prove ourselves just as capable as all those big European blokes. Show some enthusiasm, mate!"

"Britain's the one who asked us to be here, though." Ben blinked. "Does that mean we're still technically part of his flock?"

"Oh, stop it with your sheep references." Jack rolled his eyes, and peeled himself off the railing. A swooping seagull cast a shadow over the deck. The upcoming dock was getting bigger. "This is our chance to show him that we're all grown up, and that all those years of being the second and third favorites didn't bother us at all. Old man wants us to fight, then it's a fight he'll get on our part."

It was an unspoken thing, much like Jack's own hidden anxiousness as the ship docked. His most vivid memories of Britain, of his adoptive father, did not involve tenderness. Tough love, they called it when a parent had favorites. America's name had never been uttered around him, but Jack knew. He knew that the bespectacled nation he had met not so long ago was—used to be, formerly, in the past—Britain's pride and joy. Anyone or anything that came after that received that so-called tough love that didn't feel like love as much as it felt like a perpetual reprimanding. Maybe Jack wasn't proving himself to the _entire _world. Maybe he only wanted that left-over scraps of praise that his stingy guardian had failed to reward him with as a child.

But he—no, _they—_would prove the Brit damn wrong.

"Like an initiation." Ben nodded. "Our baptism into the real world."

"That's the spirit." The Australian clapped the New Zealander on the back. Ben shrugged off his hand, but rolled his eye good-naturedly. "Now stop moping around. We've just docked."

And off they went, these newly-christened nations, to war much like lambs to the slaughterhouse with all the approval in the world to gain.

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_April 1915_

Arthur found him beneath the stars.

The youth was sprawled out on his back—hands a pillow behind his head—in the pale dirt of the Turkish cliffs. His green eyes were closed, making him seem as if he were in a deep slumber, but Arthur knew better. Australia seemed to never sleep—not even in the trenches, he'd heard tell—or rest. But his chest rose much too lightly for Arthur's comfort. A red crevice of a cut marred his cheekbone. His lower lip was split. His uniform was dirty with dust, dirt, blood, and who-knows-what. Even though his eyes were closed, Arthur could picture the heavy bags beneath them—the product of many sleepless, shell-shocked nights in a mudhole.

The Englishman sighed.

"Australia," He stood next to him. He didn't even flinch at the sound of shoes meant for drill crunching on the dirt. "Get up. Your men are looking for you."

The youth raised an eyebrow, but made no attempt to open his eyes. "You mean what's left of them?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur, too, raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Your entire company is waiting for an order to prepare for tomorrow. Stop your nap, and go back to the garrison.'

"Wasn't sleeping, mate." The Australian slowly opened his eyes. Arthur swore he could see the stars reflected back in them. "Just thinkin' with my eyes closed. Why don't you go back to your tent, officer, and tell them what to do? Doesn't matter, though, because they're all going to be dead in the trenches come next week."

"What are you rambling on about, Australia?" The Englishman sighed yet again, but didn't bother to dispel the younger man's predictions. "Just get back to work—"

"You didn't tell me so many of them were gonna die."

Arthur blinked. Australia was just staring up at the sky, his eyes fixed on a far star on the horizon.

"What?" Arthur felt his eyebrows knit. "Why would I tell you anything like that-?"

"You mean to tell me you sent us to those bloody cliffs without the smallest worry?" The younger nation sounded rattled. He stood, wiping his hands on his dirty pants. "Without the least bit concern for us? My men were out there dropping left and right. But you? What were you doing in your tent? Watching the bloodbath?"

"Calm down, boy." Arthur shook his head. "It was a logistic error. I'm sorry for your loss, but you can't be hung up on casualties likes this—"

"Logistic error?" Australia repeated incredulously. "Logistics my ass, Britain! Don't refer to my soldiers—_my people—_as nothing more than casualties! We were the ones getting killed out there! _We. _Not you. So you might as well show the least bit of respect for all the boys that did your dirty work, mate. But you can't thank them in person, though, because they're lying face-down at the bottom of the cliffs right now. I'd like to ask you now to kindly piss off, and leave me to my grieving. Because that's bloody well what I'm doing."

Arthur took a step back as if Australia's vitriolic tone were a blade being pointed at him. The younger man had his back turned to him as he stared down at the beaches below them. Waves clashed along the rock as the moon pulled them higher like puppets on strings. How many bodies were being washed away by the water? How many casualties were being carried off into the depths of the Mediterranean, never to be shipped back home?

The Englishman surveyed the Australian before him. The curve of his freckled nose was rough. He wondered how many times it had been broken. It was like the boy—well, _man, _since Australia was hardly a child anymore—to get himself injured like that doing God-knows-what. His brown hair, almost plastered to his forehead, looked like it hadn't seen a wash in days. From behind, he looked like any of his men. His young, all-too-eager, now-shell-shocked men. Australia was right; they were not men, but boys. Naïve boys that left their letters buried in the sand right next to their lives. They were, in a way, no different than Arthur's troops. The propaganda was being spoon-fed into their mouths; the enlistment rate was still tragically high. They came into the war disturbingly hopeful, they felt like kings of the world with a machine gun strapped to their back.

But after one sleepless night in the trenches, after seeing their friend die next to them, reality hit them like a mortar.

Australia was no different than his surviving men. The only difference between them was their mortality.

"It doesn't get better." Arthur said softly. Australia made no implication of hearing him. "It really doesn't. Trust me. You've no idea how many I've lost to this war in one year. But you have to keep going. We live too long of a life to get caught up in one war. Despite this, we cannot grieve for every single one, Australia. We just can't."

"It'd be impossible to." The youth shook his head. "How have you managed, Britain? The number of wars you've lived through would make anyone go loony."

"I haven't." Arthur admitted sadly. "I still remember the name of every soldier I fought with during the American Revolution. Some of them I lost to time, and others I lost to bullets. But I keep going. It's the only thing we can do."

"Yeah."

They said nothing more. But together they stood, Australia and England, and stared down at the shoreline with the realization that war was not where countries proved themselves, but where they learned to survive.

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**Historical Note: The Gallipoli Campaign (1915-1916) was a British war campaign during WWI. The goal of the campaign was to secure a secure trading route with Russia- another Allied power- through the Central-aligned Ottoman Empire (modern-day Turkey, Syria, etc). Gallipoli, considered to be one of the bloodiest campaigns in WWI, was a close victory by the Central powers. Nonetheless, however, both sides experienced a massive loss of life and supplies. Fighting for the Allied powers, under the British control, was the ANZAC- the Australian and New Zealand Army Corp. These two had recently become official countries (Australia in 1901, I believe?), and this was their first time fighting a war. The ANZAC regiment was therefore "baptised in fire" when they went in. The ANZAC Landing at a spot on the Turkish coastline later renamed Anzac Cove is commemorated on April 25th in both Australia and New Zealand. **

**A/N: Yo. This was actually pretty intense to write. Please no one take offense at the portrayal of the British officers here- though massive casualties were sustained by both the ANZAC and the British army and navy, there is record of British commanders sending Australian and New Zealand troops on suicide charges to the front line. Also, to any Australian readers, I really hope I used your slang right! I'm American, sorry!**

**A/N2: Does APH New Zealand have an official human name? I don't think so. I've always seen him referred to as Ben or Toby Kirkland. Anyways, guys, check out the song Cliffs of Gallipoli by Sabaton. Its pretty intense. Plz review and favorite!**


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